


A Hidden Garden, a Wall Against the Wind

by PaulAtreDeezNuts



Category: Dune - All Media Types
Genre: Catheters, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Drugged Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Force-Feeding, Forced Masturbation, Graphic Description, Incest, LMK if I missed something, M/M, Medical Torture, Omorashi, Paul and Feyd are cousins so, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Sounding, look clearly I'm working through some stuff with this fic, non-sexual electrocution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-03-31 16:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13978602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulAtreDeezNuts/pseuds/PaulAtreDeezNuts
Summary: The Harkonnens have defeated the Atredies in the struggle to rule Arrakis. The Atredies line has ended, but for a silent, dark-eyed young man bathed in the mists of a hidden garden where a viscous predator likes to spend his time.AU, Paul and Jessica didn't escape during the coup.





	1. The Sound of Water

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I want feedback because this is literally the first fic that I've written since I was 18. That being said, this is my first fic since I was 18 so try to keep it constructive and kind (if possible). 
> 
> This is part of a longer planned story, no idea how long it's going to be or where it's going to go, but I don't have plans to drop this any time soon.
> 
> ETA: if you like a chapter when you first see it save it that way because I'll be replacing with corrected/improved/beta-d versions later on.

There was nothing. There were noises and sights and objects but they couldn't penetrate the consciousness of the dark-haired youth as his lax limbs twitched and fluttered on a spartan couch. And so for him there was nothing. No family, no empire, no cold princess waiting across the stars, no impish warrior with blue eyes and a soft voice waiting in the caves, no future, no past. Simply nothing.

Sometimes it seemed like there might be something - he would become aware of colors around him in a riot, of sweet smells, of the weight around his wrists, of hands and teeth on his body, of the sound of water whispering to him nearby.

But largely nothing. He drifted, he slept, he sighed, and for a long time the would-be Duke knew none of what passed around him.

***

Feyd was plotting. There was, of course, nothing unusual about this. It was breakfast and so he was breakfast plotting. At lunch he would lunch plot and while fucking he would fuck plot. As a Harkonnen it was expected, and so Feyd plotted.

Today's breakfast plot was a subject that frequently occupied him during the earliest parts of his day. Paul.

During the Battle of Arrakeen Feyd had done something rash. He had taken a prize for himself that he knew his uncle wanted and he had hidden it away.

For three excruciating years Feyd had kept his nemesis chained in the secret conservatory of the Baron's mansion, snatching only a few minutes with his toy here and there to avoid suspicion from his dear uncle.

He had watched the parade of smooth-limbed, dark-eyed, heart-plugged slaves taken to his uncle's chambers for years. He had seen their rent and bloodless bodies carried away from those chambers through bleak passages, and he knew whose face the Baron wished those boys wore.

When the Baron took ownership of the keep, victory and rage lighting his fat face, Feyd knew the fate planned for Paul, and knew that he could not abide it. The Atredies scum didn't deserve a quick, clean death after a night of debauchery. He didn't deserve an honorable death in battle, or even a knife through his throat. What Feyd Harkonnen most desired was the utter destruction of any value that Paul Atredies might have offered to the universe. Paul wasn't to be killed, he was to be defiled.

And so Feyd had plotted, morning and night. He had plotted with the slavemaster, who had drugged the Atredies heir upon first inspection and stopped his heart just long enough to convince the Baron that the boy was dead. He had plotted with his valet to have the conservatory appointed for Feyd's exclusive use as the obvious successor to the Baron. And then he had plotted and planned and killed everyone who had helped him until Feyd alone knew that the young Duke lived, and Feyd alone knew the secret to entering the conservatory that everyone believed was locked and lost.

Paul was the only thing that had inspired the virtue of patience in the young Harkonnen. Feyd had learned to watch carefully for spies and observers and learned how not to be caught. He had learned how to measure the drugs he administered to his captive and how to feed him and clean him and keep him whole until the day that it would be safe to use him.

And today was that day, for at long last his hideous, fat, floating uncle had died in the teeth of another of Feyd's plots.

After a morning of plotting at a table laden with sumptuous fruits and succulent meats Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen rose and walked to his conservatory.

***

He had a name for the first time in what seemed like a very long time. After all, before there was nothing.

Paul. He was Paul Atredies. There were other things he should know but he couldn't make himself know them yet.

What he did know was that his arms were heavy and his skin was cold. He could see only faint light filled with colors and somewhere nearby was the sound of water.

He was Paul Atredies and that should mean something.

There was a cushioned surface beneath him, velvet to the touch but firm under his weight. The air he breathed reeked of flowers and was heavy with the weight of moisture.

The moisture was wrong, the flowers were wrong, but he couldn't remember why.

There was a warm hand touching his back, between his shoulders and over his spine. He didn't know who the hand belonged to but his skin hungered for its warmth. He let out his breath, unaware that it was accompanied by a quiet moan, and pressed harder against the hand. The movement was rewarded with a second hand, warm and calloused, laid gently against his cheek.

"So cold, Pet, for so long," said a voice out of the darkness before a mouth covered his and all thoughts fled his mind as his body searched for heat.

***

Feyd grinned ferociously against Paul's seeking lips, grasping the smaller man's arms and pressing his body against his cold legs, spreading heat through the drugged captive.

Paul was beautiful. He had been a beautiful boy when he was painted in the family portrait that the Baron had hung over the banquet table as a nasty joke and Feyd had stared nightly into the serious eyes of the painting, waiting to see how those eyes would look as their owner awakened a man. He was beautiful now, his short, muscular frame kept spare and trim by the machines that Feyd had appointed for the care of his toy. Paul had not been allowed to grow in his years of sleep, had not gained his father's imposing height with the meager nutrition supplements had allowed, but his limbs were straight and strong, his pale chest broad and his stomach flat. His hair had been kept short, just long enough for Feyd to thread his fingers through and make a fist, which Feyd did now, pulling Paul's head back to reveal his full red lips and unseeing black eyes. He looked even prettier than his picture.

Feyd had been kneeling over his toy, letting his hands rove and feeling the excitement pool in his gut. He had never allowed the Atredies scum to come so close to the surface, to be so aware but oh how he had hungered for a response to his touches - how he had wanted to see Paul pull away in disgust or, even better, chase after Feyd's touch too wanton and unaware to know he should be disgusted. With Paul's neck bared Feyd lowered himself to the couch over his captive, latching onto a sharp collarbone with sharper teeth and feeling his cock begin to throb as his enemy moaned in a voice that cried out with need.

The drugged man didn't know what to do with his hands, didn't know to speak, was unaware of his nudity or his company and that thought filled Feyd with a triumphant, ravenous glee. Paul let himself be petted, let his nipples be licked and nipped, let Feyd spread his legs with a leather-clad thigh and only reached out for more. With a fist in his hair and a hand on his shoulder Feyd rolled Paul onto his chest, pulling the compliant body below him to its hands and knees, growling with lust when the pale, firm ass ground against him, chasing his heat.

Feyd had waited for years but still took a moment to savor the scene he had worked so long to create.

It was dim in the conservatory, shadowed and green in a way rivaled by nothing else on this godforsaken red rock. A quiet fountain splashed and played nearby, ever-open flowers filled the room with their sweet scent. The couch was a wide flat cushion of intricate black velvet brocade tucked against the smooth wall of the chamber and surrounded in a bower of vines. Feyd was wearing his customary black unitard, feeling the pulse of his erection against its molded codpiece while the pale, pert, pure body of Paul Atredies writhed beneath him, drugged and desperate for his touch, slim wrists and ankles encircled in ornate rings of thick dark metal that made him look frail and marked him as a possession. Paul's voice was returning, letting out breathy little exclamations that punctuated his movements. The smaller man whimpered as Feyd stroked his back, moaned when he grasped his hips, and mewled when those hot hands grasped his cheeks and pulled them apart.

Feyd was done with patience. He rose to his knees and unbuckled the clasps on the top of his garment and peeled it to his hips, removing the unyielding codpiece and tossing it aside to free his aching cock. The smaller body below him shivered and panted held in place with one hand against the small of its back as Feyd freed a vial of oil from a small pocket on his thigh. He dripped oil into Paul's crease, grinding his teeth and hearing his pulse as the small hole quivered at the unexpected contact. Feyd poured oil over his own cock and rutted himself against the smooth space between Paul's cheeks for a few strokes until his hot length was coated. He grasped his cock by the base, circling it savagely with his thumb and forefinger to stave of an imminent climax as he rubbed the thick, ruddy head against Paul's entrance. When he could be sure that he would last long enough to enjoy this moment Feyd lined the head of his cock up with Paul's clenching hole just in time to feel his enemy's body stiffen and hear the Paul's first word since being hidden away three years ago - a shaky and uncertain "No -" and with that Feyd plunged brutally forward, dragging Paul onto his shaft by the hips and feeling the unprepared and suddenly aware young man convulse in pain and shock around him.

***

He was Paul Atredies and the colors had shapes that nearly had names. There were blotches of green and pink and pale yellow and deep violet around him - the colors were what made the air smell so sweet.

The warmth was coming from the tanned shapes of the dark form that towered over him, there was a tan shape above it with a hint of copper that also brought warmth and moisture and sometimes a bit of sensation that Paul almost remembered was pain.

The softness beneath him took on a texture as he recognized his own hands, paler than they should be, with strange shapes at his wrists, and distracted him from the spreading warmth. The soft and sharp and wet mouth bit and licked his neck and chest and shoulders. The bronzed hands grasped his waist and tangled in his hair and moved and shaped him.

Paul Atredies was the son of someone and he should know there was too much moisture in the air. It was heavy on his lips and tongue. He heard a whimper that surprised him as his own voice. He was on his knees and elbows on a soft surface, and behind him there was a hot, wet, unnervingly intimate touch that startled something deeper in him.

He was Paul, the son of Duke Leto, and the air of Arrakis was drier than this and never heard the sound of water and someone large and heated was nudging against his entrance with a heavy cock and Paul knew himself and that this touch was not wanted. He froze at the realization and whispered a refusal before his sudden awareness was dissolved in a cascade of pain and his voice grew stronger with shouts of agony.

***

The quiet body Feyd held came alive at the harsh intrusion and he howled his joy, shattering the atmosphere of the conservatory. That animal sound was joined almost immediately by an anguished wail from Paul as the struggling man's shoulders were pinned to the couch under Feyd's weight. Paul's hands grasped desperately and uselessly at the velvet cushion, his long pale thighs trying to close against the leather-clad legs between them. Feyd held Paul down and withdrew a few inches before slamming back into the lovely wet grip of Paul's unwilling warmth.

Paul whined and bucked against the larger man but couldn't find the strength he knew he should command. Each time he tried to move away the larger man used the movement against Paul, letting him crawl forward only to jerk him back and laugh in a high, terrifying, manic voice when Paul cringed or cried out. Paul had been barely conscious only minutes ago and was now lightheaded again, uncertain if he would black out from the pain as he felt himself tearing inside from the searing and unforgiving movements of his captor. He struggled to choke down his cries, to hold himself still and hope the hurting would stop.

Seeing the ineffectual struggles of his toy was deliriously arousing. Feyd thrust more viciously and was more cruel with his grasping hands each time Paul tried to inch away from him, building himself up to a fever pitch that he knew he couldn't sustain. He reached out and maneuvered until the manacles on Paul's wrists were joined together in one of Feyd's strong hands and stretched above the captive's hands. He used his weight to press the smaller body into the couch, spreading the nude thighs further apart with his own leather clad legs, his free hand clawed around Paul's hip with bruising force. Paul was no longer giving full voice to his fear and pain, but had clenched his jaw and let his hurt be known only by the edge of a whine in his breathing, which Feyd listened to exuberantly and he settled his mouth around Paul's white shoulder and bit down until he tasted blood. The taste of metal in his mouth and the sight of tears glittering on the edges of Paul's seeking eyes goaded Feyd into faster, shallow thrusts that built his pleasure to a rapid crescendo. The joy of seeing his nemesis confused, fucked, and weeping under his hands and the triumph of knowing he had ascended to his destined title through his own skill and treachery mingled with the wet-silk, blood-hot tightness of Paul's abused hole to wrench a wild and violent climax from Feyd. He let the pleasure course through him and explode into the bruised, bleeding, debauched body of the man who would have denied him this moment.

Feyd panted after he came and laid limp and sweating on his captive. Paul's hands were still pressed down above his head by Feyd's stronger arm, his legs held down by the weight of his owner. Feyd nuzzled into Paul's hair and the dark-haired man turned his head away from that intimacy, putting his face toward the wall so as to ignore the sight of the new Baron's spiteful grin. Feyd allowed this impertinence and nipped at Paul's now exposed ear before biting down harder until his toy made a frightened little sound in the back of his throat.

"Atredies scum," Feyd growled into the reddened ear, "everyone you love is dead."

Paul didn't move as Feyd released his arms, he curled into himself while the Baron retrieved his clothing and he made no response as the taller man left the room, closing the plasteel door behind him with a sense of ownership and finality that shook Paul to his core.

He remembered a small dark body lying crumpled in a corridor. He cast his mind further back and remembered sleeping far below ground with his mother frightened beside him and his father staring grimly at a rank of nervous advisers. He remembered an edge of defeat in the voices of the house troops. He remembered a priceless gift from a man he had thought could always be trusted and he remembered how that gift had awakened the edge of distrust within him. As he pieced together a confused jumble of memories Paul came to know what must be true.

Duke Leto Atredies was dead, the Lady Jessica was dead, the traitorous Dr. Yueh, was almost certainly dead. Gurney, Hawat, and Idaho might be dead, though Paul doubted all of his fiercely skilled teachers had been killed by traitor who had destroyed House Atredies. By some dark miracle Paul survived on Arrakis, alive at the whim of a cold face he had never seen before under a bright shock of blondeish red Harkonnen hair.

Alone and bleeding, the young Duke closed his eyes and tried to remember his training, soothing his mind with sound of the fountain to wash away his fear.


	2. A Lingering Scent of Spice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad shit ahead? I guess that's this whole fic. Mind the tags.

The conservatory was flush with roses. Paul remembered a delicate bloom in his mother's hand as she told him of the message Lady Margo Fenring had inscribed on a broad leaf. She had wanted to keep them safe.

The rose from Paul's memory was a soft yellow but none of the open buds around him were - he saw a heartrendingly beautiful gradient of mauve and purple flowers but none were yellow.

How long had he been here?

Paul focused his senses and examined his body, ignoring the pain radiating from certain points to focus on the underlying structure.

His hands were broader, as was his chest. His skin was pale. He ran his tongue over his teeth and put his fingers through his hair.

Months had passed, at least, if not years.

His exploration led him to some unwelcome surprises. He found that his body was hairless other than a small patch above his member. His chin was smooth - smoother than it had been when he had ridden with his father to observe spice collection. In some places his skin was marked by fine scars - neat crosshatching on his ribs, long single strokes on the insides of his arms and thighs. He was missing the heart plug he would have expected a Harkonnen prisoner to bear, but felt uneasy about the thin lines and what might be beneath them. He pressed against the scars and could find no foreign objects that were palpable. Perhaps they were only scars.

He examined the heavy metal cuffs around his wrists and ankles. House Atredies did not keep slaves or trade in slaves but Paul had seen holovids of Imperial Galas, had seen beautiful, bare dancers wearing similar adornments. They were seamless, ovoid in cross section, and they were beautiful - an iridescent metal that shifted from black to deep sapphire to a royal violet and dusky slate as he moved. Made to be comfortable but permanent. Made to show an object was owned. A slight indentation on each cuff told Paul that they had hidden chambers, closed with a biometric lock like the palm lock that opened this room.

But his mother had opened that lock and Paul had learned from his mother. He glanced at the door for a moment. but if there had once been a panel for him to try it had been removed. The inside of the door held no hope for him, but did reveal the glossy eye of a camera staring back at him.

He retreated to the couch, noticing but trying to ignore the musky odor emanating from it. His fingers found the divots in the cuff on his left hand. He focused on every point of contact, he heard his mother's stern admonitions in his head. _Pay attention, Paul_ , her contralto echoed in his mind, _there are no secrets from those of us trained to see the world as it is_.

He increased the pressure of his fingers slightly, and gave them a subtle twist. There was a loud click and a fat ring flipped out of the cuff, melded perfectly to the larger ring around his wrist, immovable until he twitched his fingers once again and it clicked back into its chamber. These were meant to hold a captive chained and he had little doubt about who had planned to chain him.

Paul shuddered, the echoes of his mother fading away as a high laugh edged its way into his thoughts. He stood and sought out the other cameras.

Prana-bindu training made the Bene Geserit seem superhuman to the uninitiated. Paul had admired the effortless grace of his mother since his infancy and she had indulged his admiration, teaching him little tricks and meditations at first, then insisting on hours of time daily dedicated to practice with Duncan Idaho. When the Reverend Mother had come to Caladan and tested him his mother had increased his training and Paul had been an apt pupil. Now his senses felt dull, his nerves languid and his muscles sluggish. Enough time had passed or enough drugs had been put through his system that Paul groped for his training and found only the barest remnants of the control he had once had.

But training was always meant to be endless. So he closed his eyes and focused on the landscape of sound surrounding him. The tinkle of the fountain was easily ignored, the rustling of leaves was also dismissed. As he listened Paul found the vibration of wind against the skylight overhead and small puffs of air moving through unseen grates near the floor. The stone floor beneath his feet vibrated and his mind translated that into the trundling of a cart in a corridor far away but on the same floor. And then he heard it, the minute friction of tiny lenses adjusting their focus. He isolated three quickly, two more less quickly. There were five cameras in the room. At least five that he could sense.

Opening his eyes Paul placed all of the cameras and rapidly realized there was nowhere in the conservatory that he could go to escape their gaze. He was on display.

***

 

Feyd's ascendancy was uncomplicated. House Harkonnen was organized as a corporation and the death of the Baron required no period of confusion or mourning before the advancement of his heir. This was further simplified by the fact that Feyd had already killed anyone who might challenge him and made others aware of the risk incurred by posing a threat to the Na-Baron. His foul brother was long dead in an accident that Feyd truly hadn't had a hand in, his Uncle succumbed to a vice Feyd had fed in him, and all the advisors knew their places in the order and exactly how the young Baron would torture them to death should they forget their place.

So Feyd announced a day of rest in mourning for the Great Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, draped the entrance of the keep in black cloth, and took a light lunch.

The people were properly oppressed, spice collection was stable, the family coffers were being restored faster than anticipated after the defeat of House Atredies, Fremen kept to the desert, and the great houses occasionally conceded to diplomatic dinners that all hated but all must attend. Being a Baron was boring if you didn't take the time to fill your days with your passions.

Feyd's passions were more brutish but less vile than those of his uncle. He wrestled, he practiced with his swords and knives. He kept a great many slaves who he had been increasingly neglecting in anticipation of his enjoyment of the Atredies cur.

His first day as Baron didn't have a schedule beyond mouthing the appropriate mournful words about his uncle and pleasuring himself however he saw fit.

So he observed his wakeful little toy.

He enjoyed the uneasy look of humiliation that graced Paul's face as he explored his hairless, etched body. Watching him open the cuffs that were keyed to Feyd's own fingerprints was a nasty shock, though, as was Paul's unnerving discovery of each camera in the room without even moving to look. It would not do for Feyd to forget that the cur's mother was a Bene Geserit witch and she had infected her whelp with the same disconcerting skills.

That same infection made Paul a delight to watch. Even clouded with years of drugs and weakened by immobility the small man was light on his feet and unnaturally graceful. He would dance beautifully, if made to. He could be molded into a perfect object of pleasure, able to suffer and bear it or contort himself to his owner's needs in a way that no other slave could. If he could be broken, and Feyd was good at breaking things.

So he waited until Paul had stretched himself flat on the couch and evened out his breathing before he flooded the conservatory with sound.

 

***

 

Paul reclined on the couch, allowing himself to feel the pain inside his body. He was accepting the intrusion and pain visited upon him, he acknowledged the degradation of it in order to move past the act and begin to heal. He learned from his body of each of its individual little hurts, his bitten ear and shoulder, the bruising of a pinched nipple, and the aching, wrenching pain between his thighs and in his guts. He had bled only slightly, in a thin line down the back of one leg. It was the fluid that mixed with that blood that bothered him more. He found himself thinking that it was all an awful waste of moisture and remembered his tears, how they had soaked the couch beneath him.

_I was a child when my father died_ , he thought, _now I am the Duke and must be a man whether I want it or not_.

He took a deep breath and focused on the muscles and nerves that stung the worst from his assault. They were raw and angry and throbbing, and he listened to the pulse of them and willed the muscle to knit, the nerves to sooth themselves; he willed his body to heal. It was a simple trick, one of the earliest his mother had taught him and one that only required patience. Send blood to the scratch on your knee, your body knows which muscles it needs to do that. Healing took time, but he had seen his mother heal herself, and recover from injuries and illnesses faster than the most robust men of his father's House.

The pain low in his belly ebbed slightly, and he felt his core warm.

It was then that the chamber filled with the sounds of Jessica shrieking.

Paul rocked upright immediately, on guard and shockingly aware. A recording. She wasn't forming words but was screaming in hideous pain, her lovely husky voice ragged - gagged, Paul decided, to keep her from bewitching her tormentors.

He heard footsteps in the recording, heavy boots. Chains. Moaning. The stupid purr of a zipper being lowered. Shrieking.

Paul laid back down and forced himself not to hear. Just as he could choose to seek out the whispers of cameras he chose to shut out the torture of his mother. He closed his eyes and listened to his wounds instead. His goal was to stop anything that was still bleeding. Nothing could matter to him except for that. He heard but didn't allow himself to know the changes in timbre of the screaming and noises surrounding it; he paid attention to his body, to his blood, until all his wounds had stopped tingling at his nerves, and still the sounds continued.

They did not repeat.

The recording had started when his mother was already tormented and exhausted. He had heard but not listened to it for another several hours when it abruptly cut off. Not over, but silent for now.

A high cold voice spoke into the silence.

"She died badly. I thought you should know. Your whore mother died for days and deserved every second of it."

Paul crossed his hands over his chest and closed his eyes.

"They cut out her tongue before the end. Wanted to have their fun without the gag."

He rolled on his side.

"I wonder if I should do the same to you."

Paul willed himself to sleep. He didn't want to hear anymore.

 

***

 

Paul dreamt of rain on dark stone and Gurney's voice as warm and cheerful as the crackling of a fire. He heard the low notes of a baliset and the memory of rich food rolled over his tongue.

He dreamt of Caladan lashed by rain, the clean scent of strong storms and the daily flashes of lightning. He dreamt of home.

He awakened to the alien click of metal on tile and a sharp, unfamiliar mechanical hum.

Before he could raise himself off the couch where he reclined Paul found himself surrounded by strange machines - whirring metal boxes on insectoid legs that tapered to sharp points. They were shiny and featureless except for a few dark ports and the unblinking eyes of fixed cameras scattered around their surfaces. There were seven of them in a rough circle around him - Paul gathered his energy and prepared to leap away from the frightening machines.

They moved too quickly, though. Four of them immediately found his limbs and clamped down around them, separating his legs and spreading his arms away from this torso with their surprising weight that he struggled uselessly against. The largest straddled his chest, another moved over his head and blocked his vision with its silver belly. He didn't know what had become of the last one, and didn't have time to wonder when he heard the click of boots on tile.

"They're your nursemaids," the young man in black said as he seated himself beside Paul on the couch.

"They're revolting," Paul replied, trying to keep his face from touching the machine that hovered over him. In his whole life he had never seen machines such as these, that moved without men and did as they chose. But he'd seen records of the like, knew the devastation caused by such atrocities.

Feyd shrugged. "Yes. They're cold, they're inhuman. And they're trustworthy." His hand brushed the surface of the largest machine, burnishing the dull steel. "I don't have to worry about them forgetting you, or feeling sorry for you, or being fought off or overwhelmed by the tricks you learned from your bitch mother." He pressed a switch and they whirred into action.

The spidery things around his limbs clamped down and sent a tremendous pulse of electricity through Paul. He jerked and gasped, and as his mouth opened he felt a thick tube from the device above his face nudging his lips and pushing past teeth. It surged over his tongue as he gagged and choked around it before he was shocked again and it squirmed further into his mouth until it was nestled at the back of his throat and tears clouded his eyes while he struggled to breathe.

Then he realized he felt a hand wrapped around his penis, lifting it slightly away from his legs as something cold and blunt prodded the tip, circled minutely, and began to push slowly and implacably into his urethra. The last, forgotten machine walked itself forward on his thighs, moving up until it squatted over his groin and had fed endless freezing centimeters of steel into his member. Paul shuddered around the sound but could do no more than twitch and attempt to control his breathing.

_"I must not fear,"_ his own voice whispered in his head - but the litany was interrupted by another jolt of power that left his nerves tingling and body aching. His teeth clenched around the tube in his mouth and he felt the arcs of electricity coursing through his flesh and seeking the path of least resistance through the metal impaling him. He breathed in the pain and relaxed his jaw, he breathed in again and relaxed his shoulders, working to overcome is fear and fury from the top of his body down.

Then the machine that hovered over his face began pumping a warm, thick, tasteless fluid into his mouth and his body thrashed away his attempts at control. The liquid rapidly filled his mouth and began to seep past the tight seal his lips made around the invading tube. Paul choked and inhaled, aspirating some of the paste as yet more was pumped through the tube.

"Swallow or drown," he heard the Harkonnen say while one of his hand caressed Paul's hip. He choked once more before forcing his throat to work and swallow painfully. The machine kept pumping and Paul was disgusted with himself as he kept swallowing, drinking from it like a newborn. He felt his stomach growing heavy and swallowed harder to keep from vomiting as it threatened to rebel. When he began to worry about when the machine would stop, if it would keep pumping until grey gruel until he suffocated on it, the pumping ceased and the tube in his mouth withdrew. His breathing was ragged and had the edge of a sob in it while the machine scuttled away and left his face unobstructed.

His captor pulled a cloth from a hidden compartment of his bodysuit and reached for Paul's face to wipe away the slime, snot, and tears left behind. Paul considered attempting to bite his thumb off as the fingers passed over his lips but the hand was gone as soon as the thought had formed.

Once more he tried to control his breath and relax his muscles, and once more an affront interrupted him. The sound in his penis surged deeper with no warning, burying itself inside of him uncomfortably until he found it pushing against resistance before there a sensation of relief - and the realization that he had been manipulated like a doll, fed through a tube like an infant, and catheterized like an invalid as Feyd's hands ran over his body caused Paul's skin to flush in humiliation. He clenched his jaw, blinked away more unexpected tears, and turned his head to face the wall, doing all that he could to keep from seeing the delight in the ice blue eyes that sparked with glee over his shame.

Feyd let him have his little space and isolation, for the moment. Soon the machine in Paul's lap withdrew, leaving only the large box over his chest and the four cinched around his limbs. They crawled over him an inch at a time, pressing their bellies into Paul's skin and administering unpleasant but short shocks. He regulated his breathing. He recited the Litany. He felt his body tremor and stiffen from the shocks, tension and release to maintain muscle tone. He was a doll, kept pretty to be played with.

The machines stopped. Feyd stroked Paul's head and ran his fingers through the thick black hair, making a fist at the back of his skull and forcing Paul to face him.

"Do you know why I'm doing this," he asked, eyes flickering minutely to the gleaming carapace of the largest device.

"Control," Paul said. "You want me to know that nothing I am is without your permission."

Feyd smiled. It was eerie and bright - small, sharp white teeth in a hard face. "I could keep you drugged forever. I could cut off your hands." He pulled back on Paul's hair, baring the long, pale column of his neck and worrying at the pulse point with those small, sharp teeth. "I could carve away a piece of you for my dinner each day and make you watch yourself being devoured a mouthful at a time." Paul's breathing remained even as an angry red patch bloomed on his throat where Feyd nipped and sucked at the soft skin.

"Do you care about your life," Feyd asked.

"Am I the last of House Atredies?"

"Would you believe what I tell you?"

"I would know if you lied," Paul said. Feyd felt a nasty pause in his pulse at that. Jessica's spawn had truth sense, it had been in his uncle's reports before the invasion.

"Then yes, you are the last Atredies."

"Then I do care about my life," Paul returned, realizing the truth of his words as he said them. He felt a great yawning pit inside his heart, a terrible sense of mourning. He was alone in the universe but for his captor, and though he might long for death he couldn't grant himself release. He was the heir to his father's name. He was Duke Atredies. He couldn't throw himself away until he knew he had revived the altar of his house with new blood, unlikely though that seemed.

Feyd used his free hand to loosen the ties at his waist and grinned savagely.

"Good. Open your mouth, little one, and don't bite."

And Paul hated himself all the more for doing as he was told.

 

***

 

When Feyd left him chained to the couch Paul slept again and once more his dreams echoed loudly. Their noises and lights blurred through his sleeping mind like thunder, rumbling indistinctly until a great bolt struck him - an image of his own face with strange eyes, the milky glitter of a crysknife dividing light and shadow - and rocked him awake. He huffed air out from his nose and tasted a half-forgotten flavor on his breath.

Spice. And something baser, bitterer.

But it was the spice that colored and drew out his dreams. He ran his tongue over his lips.

Paul's food had been sterilized - a tasteless gruel. But the his captor spoiled himself, indulged. Over indulged.

_He will use me again,_ Paul thought. _And that too will bring these visions_.

And he slept in the satisfied silence of his mind for the rest of the night.


	3. Shadows of Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyd and Paul begin to understand each other, much to Paul's detriment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of squick? Controlling body functions and a bunch of noncon and just? Mind the tags is all.

Paul awakened when the sky was dark to arrange his limbs and his thoughts.

His captor was a stranger to him, but the shape of his face and color of his hair showed him to be a Harkonnen, as did the venom in his voice when he spoke of the Atredies. He was young, perhaps only a few years older than Paul.

During his father's brief reign over Arrakis the chief enemy of their house had been the Baron Harkonnen, a repulsive and disturbed old beast. Paul had been briefed on his enemies - the Baron above all, but also his named successor, Rabban. The lithe young man who kept Paul here was neither of those, but the depth of his eyes and the pout of his lips called Rabban to mind. Perhaps this man was a cousin being groomed for power. Given his possession of Paul, perhaps he had already obeyed the rules of his house and taken power.

He had run a chain from the wall to the shackles on Paul's wrists, binding them together in front of him and restricting his movements to the couch. Paul rose to his knees, sitting erect and spreading his legs. He clasped his hands together, bowed his head slightly, and waited. He forced his shoulders to relax and evened out his breathing, shrinking in on himself until he presented the very image of cowed vulnerability.

And he waited.

 

***

 

Feyd found himself exhausted with his actual duties as a baron on his second day carrying the title. There were obsequious hands to shake and simpering smiles to encourage into alliances and all manner of dull, unpleasant work. He had arranged his schedule to have two spare hours between the feast and a day of sporting and celebration in the arena to announce his primacy to the people of Arrakis.

He walked through empty halls to his conservatory and opened the palm lock to a lovely surprise.

Paul was awake and aware and, unexpectedly, presenting himself to Feyd. He was on his knees, bent into a shape familiar in slave markets and brothels. He didn't hide his nudity, he didn't look up when Feyd entered. He only took a deeper breath and dipped his head minutely. It was intoxicating, and clearly some type of plot. Feyd felt himself begin to harden at the sight of Paul submitting and the thought of his inexpert scheming.

"What do you want, little one?"

"May I speak," Paul asked quietly. Feyd nearly groaned aloud. Seeing Paul cautious, cowed, and quiet was like a fire under his feet making him sweat with the need to pounce on the marble-pale body before him.

"You are being a vile and manipulative whore. I appreciate it tremendously. So yes, speak."

"Who are you?" Paul's eyes lifted to make eye contact for a fraction of a second before he was once again focusing on the dark pattern of vines covering the couch. Feyd was startled into laughter and his manic bray ringing through the room made Paul shiver.

"I am Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Newly Baron Harkonnen. I thought you would have realized that."

"I had never seen you before yesterday. I knew you for a Harkonnen but had only seen images of the old baron and his chosen successor from an earlier time." Paul swallowed thickly. "Are you closely related to them? You seem cast from a finer mold."

Feyd laughed again. "Do you think I'm pretty, little duke? Do you count yourself lucky to be held by me instead of my fat, pus-dripping uncle or my stupid boar of a brother?"

Paul shook his head. Feyd approached the couch and let his hands rest on Paul's shoulders. He didn't look up or shift away. Feyd passed both hands through Paul's hair and clenched his fists around the thick black tresses. He pulled Paul's head back and met no resistance, watching the way the Atredies kept his eyes downcast and submissive with a mounting fascination.

"You don't think I'm pretty," he growled into Paul's ear.

"I think you're beautiful," Paul whispered. "But I don't think I'm lucky. Your face doesn't hide who you are. Fat or thin, you're a Harkonnen. You've already shown me the cruelty of your kin."

Feyd gripped Paul's skull and framed his face with long, strong thumbs, stoking over his cheeks and straying close to his fluttering eyes.

"You're clever, little duke. You say such sweet things that I want to suck the tongue out of your mouth and swallow it. I want to hear you try to say sweet things while you choke on your blood." He fixed his teeth onto Paul's lower lip and bit down until he tasted iron, then pulled away. Still Paul knelt submissively and kept his gaze on the floor. He was trembling slightly. "What do you want? At this moment you are so charming that I'm inclined to give it to you." He ran his hand through Paul's hair, gripping hard at the back and wrenching his head up before trailing his fingers on a path from nipple to jaw. 

"I want my freedom, but I know you won't allow it, so I ask instead for dignity."

"Is this your version of dignity, Pet? Spreading your legs for your enemies? Making yourself a tart for the people who killed your father?"

Feyd's fingers tugged at his hair and arched him back like a bow. His icy eyes were entranced by the play of muscles beneath the skin and the tension of Paul's bobbing throat as he swallowed against the strain. 

"The Fremen say there's honor in effort. I'd rather kneel before you than waste away as a warm body under your hands, fed through a tube and scoured by a machine."

"Atredies dignity is a poor thing."

For the first time Feyd felt some rebellion in Paul. His thighs flexed, his hands twitched as though he wanted to wrap them around a blade. His dark eyes rose for a moment and there was a ferocious heat behind them. But then it was gone, he relaxed back into his captor's grip, controlling himself. 

"Atredies is a poor name these days. I will do what I must to ensure its survival."

"A noble thought, Pet. So you want your minders hidden away, to care for yourself like a man?"

"Yes. Please, my Lord." Feyd's spine tingled at the unexpected honorific. 

"And why should I allow it? What will you offer me for your dignity?"

"Anything you ask of me, my Lord"

 

***

 

Feyd freed Paul from the chain holding him to the wall and stepped away from the bed. "Undress me," he said. 

Paul moved to obey, keeping his eyes down and moving gracefully as he loosened the fastenings at Feyd's wrists and throat, opening the front of his leotard and pushing it off his shoulders. Feyd stopped him as he reached for the codpiece and pushed Paul to his knees, where he unclasped the garment and pulled it away.

The Baron's member was thick and flushed, rising away from him and bobbing slightly with his heartbeat.

Paul reached toward it hesitantly, but instead rested his hands on muscled thighs and stroked the skin there with nervous little circles.

"I don't know how to please you, my Lord," he said, looking up and deeply into Feyd's eyes at last. "Can you teach me how to serve you?"

 

***

 

Behind Paul's hesitation and blushes a mentat was peering into the proceeding from a cold and shadowed place. The Harkonnen wanted him debased, the Harkonnen was a hedonist altogether different from his uncle, the Harkonnen was hungry and cruel but not clever.

He wanted to see Paul ashamed of himself, he wanted Paul innocent and halting. So Paul allowed himself to blush and his eyes to flutter and a grimness to cross his features at onerous commands. Paul saw the way that calling Feyd "Lord" chased all his thoughts away and convinced him of Paul's fear and deference. He saw by the way he sneered and scoffed that he knew Paul was plotting but didn't believe him to be capable of doing any harm.

As Paul stammered and stroked Feyd's thighs the hidden mentat noted the empty sheath in the top of a boot and saw a spring for a hidden needle that was unloaded and absent in the seam of the leotard.

Paul watched and learned and made no wrong moves, carefully constructing the character he would show to his enemy so that the cold, vicious thing inside of him could reveal itself only when it was assured of its freedom.

The Paul he showed to Feyd was spoiled and scared, an inexperienced child of privilege from a backwater planet who knew nothing of the universe. A virgin sacrifice to be dashed against the rocks, frail and unthreatening but haughty and easily shamed.

And silently under the surface a burning seed took root and Paul took the first steps of the plan constructed by the cold voice that could, for the moment, only speak inside his head.

 

***

 

Feyd was about two shy questions away from losing himself to his lust without even taking the time to enjoy it.

For all that he was sculpted in alabaster and lined with muscle Paul looked like a broken bird, his swift hands darting as though they longed to take flight. He hid under the thick fringe of his dark hair and licked his lips to cover his fear. Feyd could practically feel the heat radiating from Paul's brilliant blush as he nervously assessed the challenge before him.

"Take the base in your hand," he said, "and squeeze while you put the head in your mouth." Feyd groaned as his instructions were followed and he felt the wet silk heat around him. "Lick at the bottom and take in as much as you can."

Paul's sweet pink tongue began to move, broadening against the fat cock resting on it then relaxing and pulling back to lave the tip. That sensation faded as Paul tightened his hand and leaned forward, pulling more of Feyd into his mouth and immediately choking. He instinctively tried to pull back but found Feyd's hands were rooted in his hair and pulling him forward against the spasms in his throat. His eyes began to run and he whined as Feyd pressed deeper into his mouth.

"Swallow around it, that will make it easier."

Paul tried to do as he was told and Feyd felt the ripple and press of his mouth, pulling back a bit when the choking didn't stop.

"I'll expect your skills to improve if you want to earn the right to care for yourself. Do you understand?"

The Atredies tightened his grip on the shaft in his hand and pressed harder against the head with his velvet tongue. He made a noise that sounded affirmative and which translated itself into a tantalizing buzz against the flesh filling his mouth. Feyd groaned and Paul made the noise again, repeating it as he began to move his head experimentally, drawing Feyd deeper then pulling away. Feyd saw his cheeks hollow with the suction he maintained and saw the glitter of tears in his eyes and spit on his lips, beginning to run down his chin and drip onto his chest. It was clumsy and sloppy and unsatisfying and yet it remained the most arousing experience Feyd had enjoyed in months. Paul found a rhythm to his breathing that allowed him to take the fat prick deeper into his throat and hold it there longer, he gagged but never pulled completely off, using his hands to maintain pressure but also to control depth. And he wept. It was so silent and unostentatious that Feyd couldn't tell if the tears were a simple byproduct of his choking or the result of a miserable awareness of his station.

But perhaps he could do something to ensure that misery played a part.

"Touch yourself," he said, and the rhythm that his pet had established faltered. Paul sat back on his haunches and cleared the obstruction from his mouth.

"My Lord?"

"I want to see you cum while you suck me. Touch yourself."

Paul's eyes traveled from Feyd's face to his own soft member. He moved a hand down Feyd's thigh abortively, stopping before the knee and making a fist. Feyd watched, fascinated as the hand began to move and again Paul stopped himself with a strangled sob.

"My Lord, I don't - I've never -" and his wide, dark, panicked eyes were overflowing with tears as they met Feyd's stare.

Like lightning from a clear sky Feyd's hands locked themselves around Paul's wrists. An ugly smile skewed his face.

"What, Pet? You've never what?"

"I don't know how to - make myself," he drew in a shuddering breath and bowed his head to hide his face, "the Bene Geserit don't allow -"

"Say it."

"I've never touched myself like that. I - there's training, and I was not to be trained until I was older. I don't know how to do as my Lord desires."

Feyd's hands flexed where they held him, gripping tight enough to bruise.

"The son of a Duke. Scolded not to be naughty by his nannies," the hands relaxed and Feyd lifted Paul's chin until he could see the mortification burning on his face. "Such a good boy you must have been to follow their orders. Did your obedience to your nurses serve you well?"

Paul sucked in a breath and blinked away tears. "So it would seem, my Lord. May I continue as I was?"

Feyd considered, weighing his delight in this new source of shame against the delay of his own gratification.

"Please, my Lord," Paul whispered, and the whelp begging to suck his master's cock rather than dwell on his embarrassment swayed the decision. Feyd leaned back against the couch and gestured for his pet to continue.

Paul leaned forward gracefully, locking eyes with Feyd. Instead of taking him in his mouth immediately he delicately took the shaft in his hand and tilted it toward himself. He lowered his face and pressed his tongue beneath the head, cradling it before sweeping over the slit and starting a series of teasing little licks while the pressure from his hand increased, all as he looked to Feyd for approval, presenting a picture of wounded pride and debauchery that carved itself into Feyd's mind like a brand.

He drank up the moment but didn't have patience even for ecstasy. After a short time the teasing grew frustrating and he placed a hand on the back of Paul's neck, tugging his head down just hard enough to demand satisfaction without making it into a threat.

His marvelous toy obeyed that unspoken order, tucking his tongue away and dropping his hot mouth down on the spear of Feyd's cock, a little warrior falling on his sword. Once again he used his hands to keep from choking but he had learned how to keep pace with what his master wanted, closing his lips tight around the intrusion, painting the thick veins with his tongue, and broaching his throat with the thick cock until Feyd could feel it spasm around him, struggling to take him deeper without backing away.

He surprised himself when he came at that slight flutter and struggle but was quick enough to hold Paul in place as he shot into his mouth and the startled brat tried to writhe away from him. Paul struggled against a fist in his hair and whimpered as ejaculate dripped from the corner of his lips.

"Swallow," he commanded of his choking captive. "Swallow first, then you can breathe."

Paul obeyed rapidly and without prompting licked the come that had leaked from his lips off of Feyd's deflating erection until nothing remained. Feyd kept a tight hold of the hair in his fist but said nothing for a few moments as they both panted, absorbing the new history between them.

 

***

 

Feyd rose to dress and Paul stayed on his knees, waiting until the Harkonnen took a step toward the door to speak.

"My Lord -" Feyd paused. "My Lord, have I not pleased you?"

The baron considered the question, narrowing his eyes and tipping his head to the side.

"You are clumsy. You are unskilled. But you are, so far, obedient. I am not overwhelmed with your performance, but I am, for the moment, satisfied." His lips curled into an obscene smile. "Did you want to ask for your reward? For your dignity?"

Paul nodded and twisted his hands together in his lap.

"And what is it that you want right now?"

"My Lord, if there is a reclamation chamber nearby -"

"There is not, and I will not allow you to leave this room to use one."

Paul kept his eyes on the ground. His mouth was a hard straight line.

"When I return to you tonight perhaps I will have a solution. Wait until then. But if you piss in my fountain or on my floor like a dog I'll know I have no reason to treat you like a man. Rest well, pet."

And he was through the door before Paul looked up again.

 

***

 

Paul knew that Reverend Mothers could drink poison. They could, in fact, neutralize poison, even make a fouled well safe to use again. Their Prana Bindu awareness was so finely honed that they could build antidotes within their bodies at a cellular level. He dimly knew that this was something bred into them, that they had aeons of time behind them that had looked for this mutation, this level of skill, and found good stock to build on and craft the traits that made them such a mysterious force in the universe. Enzymatic protein responses, a vocal range that could be trained to be overpoweringly hypnotic, a faint and cloudy prescience like a poor version of what was inculcated into guild navigators - these were things the Bene Geserit sought in their line and, Paul realized, was something his mother had bred into him.

 _Perhaps I'm not a man,_ he thought wearily. _Perhaps I'm an animal, a machine, a tool. It was how the sisterhood saw my mother, it's why they didn't intervene to save her. Better stock would have saved itself._

Paul could not drink poison, but he could focus on the hints of spice that had entered his body through Feyd's seed. He couldn't concentrate it or draw it together as his mother might have done, but he could absorb it into his own system; in a crude way he could force it through his flesh to prevent it from being excreted and wasted as Feyd's body had wasted it. Paul knew that spice was valued for its life-extending properties but he sensed that it was moving through him differently than it moved through the Emperor or the lords and ladies of other great houses. It took hours but he felt more aware and stronger after his body had processed such a tiny amount of it - within his mind he felt something stir and purr, shifting below his consciousness but making itself known for the first time.

It startled him to find this alien presence in his heart. It was vast and invisible and uncomfortably familiar.

He set this feeling aside and focused his attention on something more pressing - digesting as much water as he could before it passed into his bladder.

It was, surprisingly, not as simple as sorting spice - the water didn't call to him, didn't want to bond with him, and already he felt an uncomfortable pressure that he was trying to ignore.

He meditated, he focused on his breathing, he did minuscule muscular exercises to train himself to better seek spice in the future and still he could not ignore his slowly mounting discomfort.

Hours after Feyd left him Paul heard the grating sound of metal on metal and one of the machines entered the conservatory. Paul started to recoil away from it, snarling, when a hatch on its carapace opened and the smells of meat and spice rose from its mechanical back. He approached it cautiously and looked into the small chamber - there was grilled meat, an unfamiliar fruit, and strange dark green shapes that shone with oil. He knelt near the little robot and started to back away when it approached, but it only opened its hatch wider, then stood still - a mobile tray that would chase him if he ran. It was almost amusing.

He reached into the warm open box and lifted a chunk of meat to his mouth - the spice that had been used in cooking, a tiny portion by any standard, threatened to overwhelm his senses and before he realized it he had eaten all the meat in the tray and was licking grease from his fingers, his body pulling the spice into it almost automatically now. He picked up one of the green oblong shapes and bit into it - cooked grains wrapped in dark leaves and soaked in spiced oil. He made short work of those as well.

The fruit, however, was a problem. It was nothing more than a thin skin around a cloying gobbet of juice - he drank the center and chewed the skin miserably, feeling more liquid starting to move through his system. The little robot beeped at him and sprayed some steam on his sticky hands before clicking away and disappearing through a panel in the wall.

And then he waited.

The conservatory grew dark as Paul paced and knelt and finally sat on the floor rocking and counting seconds waiting eagerly for the sound of Feyd's boots approaching through the tiled halls. When the door finally opened and revealed the grinning baron Paul was sweating with the effort not to release his bladder, every exhale carrying the edge of a whine.

 

***

 

Feyd was in good color, his face ruddy with the exertion of killing three gladiators in honor of his ascension. He entered the conservatory ready to torment his toy and end his first day as Baron Harkonnen on a high note.

He was pleased to find Paul kneeling again, and took his time looking over the sheen of sweat and uncomfortable grimace that decorated the brat. Feyd had snatched a few moments through the day to check the monitors that watched this room and had prepared a selection of gifts for the dukeling appropriate to what he had observed. One of the automatons entered with him and Paul whimpered at the sight of it.

"Quit your mewling. I've not decided yet whether I'll let it handle you for me but sniveling like an infant might help me make a choice."

Paul ducked his head slightly and quieted himself. Feyd opened the compartment on top of the machine and removed his first offering.

"Drink," he said, and handed a full liter jug of water to Paul. He stayed silent and Feyd stared lovingly at the ripple of his jaws as he clenched his teeth and took the jug. He removed the lid and looked up to his master, his eyes begging where his voice wouldn't. Feyd didn't ask again and only watched as Paul raised the vessel to his lips and tentatively began to drink.

His hands shook, his legs shook. He couldn't keep the muscles in his thighs from twitching or his breath from catching as he paused at his task. Feyd didn't speak again until the jug was empty.

"Stand and face away from me." Paul rose shakily to his feet and Feyd took up his next present from the patient machine.

It was a wide, thick, fine leather collar that stretched Paul's neck prettily and lifted his chin high as Feyd fixed it around his throat. A broad strap adorned with shining rings hung from it and rested against the small of Paul's back. Feyd took up each of his arms in turn and released the rings in his manacles, affixing them to the strap high enough that his shoulders were bunched and his arms strained.

"Go to the couch, lie down on your back."

The last item he carried over to Paul was a translucent wand of flexible material - it was about eight inches long, one end terminated in a small ring that connected to a series of tapered beads, each somewhat thicker than a stylus at their widest point, perhaps five millimeters at their narrow joints.

Feyd approached, rubbing lubricant over the surface of the thing, while Paul stared fixedly at the ceiling and bit his lower lip. He took hold of Paul's cock with no preamble and smeared the glistening fluid over the head with his thumb. Paul was trembling but didn't look down or away, he simply waited.

"This will be easier if you spread your legs. Put your feet on the couch." He nodded and did as he was told. Feyd lined the pointed end of the first bead up with Paul's urethra and slowly fed it into that unwilling flesh.

Paul was breathing as though he had just run a mile, his skin slick now with sweat. Feyd slowly forced the second bead inside of him and still he stared straight ahead and didn't make a sound.

For twenty minutes Feyd pushed in an agonizing millimeter at a time. The manacles behind Paul's back clanked now and then, his toes curled and his legs shook. By the time the ring was snug against the head of Paul's prick his breathing was ragged and his face and chest were blotchily red. Feyd shushed him and brushed sweaty hair back from his forehead. He stroked Paul's chest as though he were calming a startled animal and touched his lips to Paul's temple in a gentle kiss.

Then he moved a hand over Paul's pelvis and leaned a portion of his weight directly over Paul's straining bladder.

An awful, pained, startled shout tore itself from Paul's throat. Colors and light swelled behind his eyes at the sudden overwhelming pressure; his silence dissolved and before he was aware of it he heard himself begging, "Please, please, please no, please, please I'm sorry, please stop."

Feyd released the smaller man. Not a drop had worked past the wand. Paul was ready for use.

Feyd stood and languidly disrobed, watching Paul curl onto his side and lift his knees to shield his stomach. His cracking, begging voice made a sweet melody in counterpoint to the splashing of the fountain. Once again Feyd shushed him and petted his hair until the stream of "pleases" ran dry and Paul was only drawing in shuddering breaths and releasing sub-audible whines.

Feyd knelt beside him on the couch and grasped his thighs, rolling Paul onto his back again and spreading his legs around his master. Paul once more stared hollowly into the ceiling while Feyd put a hand behind one knee and pressed the leg toward Paul's chest. He dribbled lubricant behind Paul's balls and messily rubbed it around his entrance with his spare hand. Soon he was holding Paul's other leg behind the knee and pushing both thighs into his chest, folding him in half and creating an incredible pressure that climbed to unbearable proportions as Feyd shoved savagely inside of him and thrust forward.

Paul was struggling to breathe, to get away and find some relief from the position and pain but his pinioned arms could find no purchase and his legs were weak with the immense burning that was beginning to overwhelm his abdomen; he thought he heard himself begging again, might have been crying like a child but he couldn't be sure as his conscious mind recoiled away from what was being done to his body.

Feyd reveled in the clenching and shuddering of the wretch beneath him. Paul was a vision of suffering, bathed in sweat and burning red with pain and fear; his startled eyes saw nothing and his slack mouth poured forth a font of beautiful pleas. Feyd adjusted his grip on those shaking thighs and thrust harder at a new angle that let him see Paul's flesh clinging to him as he withdrew and flinching inward as he pounded forward. He extended his legs and pressed more of his weight into the man underneath him; Paul choked and gagged at the impossible increase of pressure, eyes leaking where his cock couldn't. The words dribbling from his mouth changed, a litany of "I'm sorry, Master, I'm sorry, Master" tumbled forth and shocked a bark of laughter from the Baron, who pulled away without warning.

He let Paul's legs drop and the sudden change wrenched at his guts that made it hard to breathe. He couldn't struggle or try to push away, he could only whimper and writhe and pray for mercy from the merciless beast leering down at him.

"Did you call me 'Master?'" Feyd growled. Paul nodded.

"You vile, deplorable, depraved, clever little whore. Did you want me to finish with you faster? Take the hurting away?" Again, Paul nodded.

"Roll onto your chest," Feyd said, and helped him to accomplish it when he found his strength too sapped for the task. Feyd arranged Paul's limbs until his pert white ass was wavering in front of him and his face was pressed into the cushion - Paul let out a stuttering sigh of relief as the position took pressure off his torso.

"Do you want me to finish you like this, with your face in the mattress and my cock up your ass while you moan like a cheap tart in a miner's brothel?"

"Please," Paul whimpered. It was muffled by the cushion but Feyd heard him clearly, grasping his hips and slamming ferociously into his loosened hole.

"As you wish," he ground out, and began to buck forward over Paul's shining back and grasping hands.

Paul was too relieved at the absence of that overwhelming pressure to feel the pain of Feyd's renewed assault or to be disgusted by the delirious sparks of pleasure he felt at the Baron's hands. His body ached but Feyd's prick was driving repeatedly into a place within him that seemed to leech heat from the air and pool it in Paul's guts and toes and fill his mouth with a slick of spit that he swallowed hard against. His captor grasped a handful of hair and pulled his head as far back as the high collar would allow.

"Tell me how you feel, little one. Tell me what I'm doing to you."

"Hurts, you're -" he choked and Feyd loosened his grip on his hair, "you're hurting me."

"How?"

"Too full, too fast - feels," he shuddered and Feyd felt the shiver course over him inside and out, "feels like you're splitting me, feels like I'm going to explode."

Feyd was holding tight to Paul's hip and his collar, lifting his chest off the surface of the couch while he knelt back on Feyd's strong thighs as they pumped more slowly into him. Paul's head flopped down and his hair hid his eyes but Feyd could see the glittering string of drool that fell from his lax mouth as he gasped out the description. Feyd yanked the smaller man upright, canting his hips back so Paul was straddling his legs and leaned back against his chest; the shift made him squirm and moan, throwing his head back to reveal bitten lips and blind, staring eyes.

"Just pain?" Feyd whispered in his ear, grinding up into Paul and holding him in place until it felt like he would try to crawl inside. He fluttered his fingers over the ring end of the wand that protruded from Paul's body. The gentle, unexpected stimulation was an exercise in frustration - the wand inserted in him kept him from feeling pleasure fully and didn't allow him to grow erect but the slightest pressure to the external ring sent tingles of sensation to the core of him.

"N-no."

"It feels good too?"

"Yes," Paul whispered, and with that Feyd wrapped his arms around Paul's waist, sank his teeth into that lovely white shoulder, and contracted his muscles - honed by the arena and primed by adrenaline - to squeeze about Paul's middle as hard as he could. The passive, exhausted young man was brought to life by the sting of it, shouting and suddenly trying to struggle away as the nearly forgotten burn of fullness roared back to life as his body tried desperately to void itself and was blocked and could only spasm and suffer instead.

His muscles all seized at once, gripping Feyd impossibly tightly within him. Feyd came with a growl, flooding his insides with a pulsing warmth and Paul panted as he pulled away, his mind torn between the pleasure he had experienced moments before and the pain radiating from his over-taxed bladder.

 

***

 

Feyd left the conservatory without bothering to speak or dress. He stripped away Paul's collar and released his tingling hands with a smile on his face before he strode out the door leaving Paul to whimper and mewl behind him.

It didn't take long for Paul to recover from this latest violation and calm himself enough to move without screaming. When he did his eyes drifted to the machine that still sat beside the couch, and the open husk of its back. 

There was a large, empty bottle with a twist-off lid sitting in the carapace. When Paul noticed it the machine moved, as though his gaze had awakened it. It walked toward him and shook its body at him, rattling the bottle in its storage chamber. Feyd had left him a urinal.

Paul took several deep breaths to keep himself from sobbing as he rolled himself into a kneeling position. He snatched the bottle away from the robot and placed it beside him on the couch and gingerly took his penis in his hand.

It was uncomfortably sensitive and the wand inserted in it made him aware of itself with every beat of his heart. Brushing his fingers against the ring that emerged from the reddened, throbbing slit was maddening - it felt like a pulse of joy at the center of him while simultaneously immobilizing him and making him feel unpleasantly full. Paul carefully took the ring between his fingers and tugged slightly - then caught himself as the wave of sensation that rolled over him robbed him of his balance. It hurt and didn't, it felt amazing and mortifying - it felt like too much and whether it was delightful or disgusting it was overwhelming. He took a couple of shaky breaths and again took himself firmly in one hand, then grasped the end of the wand in the other and applied smooth even pressure as he pulled. The variable width of the thing made his guts churn as it pulled partly out of him with a series of plopping, sucking sounds. The second pull had removed perhaps half of it, and he felt himself throbbing around it - his flesh curious and responsive while his mind revolted at the sight of the alien thing emerging from him. Another smooth pull freed him from it, clearing his urethra, which responded to its sudden emptiness by cramping. Paul curled in on himself, sucking air and rounding himself fetally around the shocking and electric pain that seemed to vibrate through all the long bones of his body.

But finally he was free of the thing, alone, and could relieve himself.

He carried the bottle away from the couch, limping and turning his bruised body toward the wall of flowers to give himself some semblance of privacy. It was painful, his bladder cramped and his stomach twitched - he felt an ache in his back that was a warning twinge from his kidneys, but he nearly wept with the relief and lightness that followed.

A beep rose from his knee and startled him - the robot was at his side, shaking its empty core at him. Paul placed the bottle inside of it and watched as the machine scuttled away. Moments later a different machine entered, bearing a steaming tray of food, a single-use sonicleaner, a canteen of water and another empty bottle.

Feyd was giving him what he asked for, pretending to allow him some dignity and peace but perverting that desire by dehumanizing him in unexpected ways. It was a spectacularly typical Harkonnen series of actions.

Paul let his face look devastated and exhausted, nearly broken but still noble - the kind of thing that Feyd couldn't help but destroy – he ate his spice-rich food and in the back of his mind the cold intelligence his mother and teachers had stropped to a killing edge considered what gains had been made this day.

He ate and cleaned himself, taking the opportunity to run the sonicleaner over the couch as well. He closed his eyes and healed himself, while beyond the skylight the towering clouds of sandstorms obscured the light of the twin moons, flickering light and dark in a pattern that lulled him into an uneasy sleep.


End file.
